Legitimacy In Death
by FinnickOdairThough
Summary: Nothing could be lawful at how they kept him caged up like an animal, how they kept him alive, but barely. He wished they'd just fulfil his demands of death, but there wouldn't be anything legitimate in that, would there?


**WARNING - **Potential **suicide**, mentions of **self-harm**, etc.

Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognise, blah-de-blah-blah.

I had posted this before, but it was short and sh*t. So I deleted it, edited it and made it around 2100 words longer. Hopefully this is better then what I'd previously posted, and that you lovely people enjoy it.

Repost: April2014

If this doesn't get reviews, I don't know whether you like it or not, so it'll probably be discontinued. If you think it's rubbish, tell me how to improve, please. I'll really appreciate your (yes, you *points directly at you*) feedback.

Read and review c:

* * *

Lies seep through even the pleasant words; anger seeps through even the most serene expressions or cheerful personas; manipulation isn't something many people understand or are capable of denying when the time comes forth.

But death wasn't something you could hide without evidence: the blood, the momentary guilt, them particular memories that shadow you. It wasn't something you can walk away from without a second thought. The bloodied knife, the gun, the axe, the pills concealed in the victims dinner - the remembrance of what you did devours the innocence you crave from the inside to the outside. Turns innocence to fury, turns hidden enmity to sparking passion.

Sometimes it even twists you in so many ways possible, it turns life to death.

The boy swinging his legs back and forth on the blemished swing _liked_ how clear death is. It isn't an emotion so it can't be conflicted. It isn't a perspective so it can't be changed. Because when you're dead, you're dead. No heartbeat, no blood pumping through veins, no dutiful brain to keep the body in order. What's left is purely a chunk of flesh, muscle, tissue and blood - you can't lie when you're dead. You can't be _hurt, _thankfully.

But that wasn't what the most reassuring thing about death was to the boy. It was the fact you couldn't feel guilt or remorse or have to fake sincerity whenever his psychiatrist - Leyton Bide - came for on of his "constructive" ("_Well, it won't be helpful if you don't even consider what I'm saying," Bide said reasonably, the fake smile never leaving his taut features_) sessions.

But the one of the most appealing things - if not the _most_ appealing - would be he wouldn't have to worry about being watched, wouldn't have to worry about security or surveillance shadowing him. At first he'd tried to act like the suicidal thoughts failed to bother him as he continued to go about his life. He had believed that his act would be sufficient enough to fool them about how he truly felt.

But on the contrary to his previous beliefs, they hadn't been fooled, hadn't believed his act of content or nonchalance or all the times he'd be questioned on the cuts and bruises that soon covered his body (like tattoos) as he said they were accidental; like the dropping of a plate or slipping of a knife as he prepared dinner - which they'd soon discovered he never even touched. Suspicions had been aroused then, only to be confirmed as he was caught hoarding all the pills he pretended that numbed the pain and when he'd been found wielding a carving knife in his bathroom, blood cascading from his wrists.

It had never been like that before Jack's death, or Sabina and her parents' demise. The security hadn't been to protect him from himself, it hadn't been so tight. He found now he couldn't even go within two-metres of a possible weapon without a guard by his side, eyes narrowed and teeth clenched as they'd refuse to look him directly in the eyes.

He wished they would just _leave him alone. _He fully understand how childish that sounded, how desperate and pleading and immature it looked. But he still didn't understand why they kept him alive. He was no use to them now, no use to their stupid plans. So why does it matter whether he lives or not? The next breath he took in sounded more of a choked gurgle.

_Pathetic. Coward. _His mind accused once again.

A frustrated sob escaped his mouth as he sat, thin and bruised, his eerily empty eyes staring up at the now-dark sky. The last time he'd been outside was when they'd attempted to force him into continuing his schooling in Brooklands. But he was already too far behind in his studies, only his language grades sustained a grade higher then a C. He didn't see the point in it, but it was obvious they needed a spy who was capable of socializing, whereas he wasn't. When he'd first gone back, it had been okay. The bullying wasn't too heavy and therefore he found himself somehow, at a extremely slow pace, settling back into a placid routine. Breakfast, school, dinner, bed. It still took them a while to convince him to eat, took them a long period of time to persuade him into believing he had actual reasons to live. That his life was worthwhile.

He'd pretended to believe them for a while. But they obviously didn't trust him enough and saw straight through meagre his act.

Then someone had gotten suspicious at how he always hid his wrists, never anymore skin then his face and hands showing. They were in the middle of game of football when he'd grabbed Alex's wrist and pulled the sleeve up to reveal jagged wounds and scarring, but he couldn't stop himself from lashing out in surprise at the older boy, primed to defend himself. The looks of undisguised horror on his friends' expressions was confusing, he could remember. But as he'd expected some people didn't pity him, they started to call him a coward, a freak. Alex previously had wondered whether they'd have the courage to draw a blade to their wrist and slice open their own flesh.

He'd also wondered who they would believe the coward was then. He wondered whether their spoilt bratty minds could comprehend it. But he also knew that even in a society divided by many sections, he didn't fit amongst anyone. So him being right wouldn't change his predicament in the slightest.

They no longer made him attend school though, they probably thought he was a lost cause by now. At least they got one thing right, he could suppose. Nothing they could do would probably savage the remains of his mind and piece them back together like a jigsaw. One piece every painstakingly long time. As he thought, the swing creaked underneath his frail form. His knuckles were pale and taut as they gripped the metal chains tightly.

He'd already given up. Why couldn't they? Why _couldn't they understand_ he'd be so much happier dead than alive?

He stood up silently before turning slowly and entering the house, his whole body numb with chills and apprehension.

* * *

"I'm not that scary, am I, Alex?" Bide inquired, trying to make light of their situation. But really, he should know that isn't going to work. He'd been attempting at it for it almost two painstaking years now. The piece of paper he clutched was held in his hand, his sweaty fingers creasing the pages. His eyes looked hopeful as he looked at Alex from over his glasses. You could say the past 55 minutes of him attempting to get Alex to speak was failing.

Once Alex just shook his head, dirty-blond hair falling and covering his left eye. The innocent spark in his psychiatrists eyes dimmed to nothing in a matter of seconds, turning them impatient. In the corner of the white room they were in, a clocked ticked as the minutes passed.

Bide coughed into his trembling hand awkwardly, and consulted his notes _once again _for around the fiftieth time since Alex had entered the room. "Ah, yes. I believe I have something that might be of your interest for once," he murmured, fingers fumbling at the clasp of one of the plastic folders on his desk. When he'd undone the clasp, his fingers fumbled around the crisp papers sheets momentarily before pulling one specific one out. Alex's eyes never left his face as he done so.

The sheet of paper was set done on the table in between the two. Its bottom left corner was torn slightly, implying it'd been put in the folder in haste. As Alex's eyes trailed down to the paper, Bide turned stiff at the hostile look that soon occupied them. The yellow flecks hardened in his brown eyes, his posture turned rigid and fists were clenched; knuckles turned white from the pressure. The clock ticked.

"Elaborate, please," Alex said stiffly, eyes staying fixed on the paper. Bide looked considerably happier at the improvement, and he jotted down some notes in his untidy scrawl quickly. He looked back up again into the cold eyes of a once impassive teenager.

His breath got caught in his throat.

"I-I um s-sorry," he swallowed down the thick saliva filling his mouth, "I was just told t-to give it to you, Alex." He tried to attain a friendly tone in his voice, yet all that failed him as his shock consumed him. The teenager blinked furiously.

Alex shoved the sheet of paper abruptly at him, his whole body shaking. However, it wasn't because of his anger or frustration, it was because of something he labelled as _failure_. The paper held all of Alex's personal details, and his mental status. It also held an area for Alex to sign. It also stated it was compulsory for him to sign the contract which he was promised he would never be faced with again-

_The contract. MI6. _A chocked sob escaped his trembling lips against his will, his thoughts once again returning to that detestable _sheet, _and all of a sudden everything pieced together _perfectly, _like they'd just been waiting for him to figure it out.

The moment of realisation overcame him suddenly. He now could see why they kept him alive against his will, how they would continue to pay large fees of money for his therapy, all the people that visited him and claimed their were there to _help_ him. It was all a lie, one bit dirty lie in their game. He never left their clutches at all, none of what they did was because they felt guilt or remorse for what they did to him. He blinked furiously at how his vision clouded over. He was still their toy, he was still their precious spy that they could mould to their own uses.

It didn't matter whether he was suicidal or severely depressed. If he was breathing he was sufficient enough for them and their work. His breaths became ragged and intensified. Alex tried to stand, but his legs gave away beneath him.

_Coward. Weakling. _His mind hissed.

"Please, just kill me, Bide." Alex mumbled, hands clawing their way down his face, leaving bloody scratches as he tried to inhale. He had wild eyes that resembled ones of a person you'd see, vacant, in a mental ward. Bide's eyes widened in horror, stunned as he stared at the droplets of blood sliding down the teenagers face and how Alex _smiled_ at the pain. He reached out a hand, trying to comfort his patient, however Alex just jerked his arm away quickly, seemingly repelled at the (_never_) harmless action.

"B-but, Alex-" he tried to soothe him, calm him down, _reassure_ him. But it held no use. Alex continued to attack his face, maybe trying to escape his own body, wake himself up from this nightmare that transformed into his life _somehow_.

"Kill me, kill me, kill me," he continued, his voice rising in pitch and becoming more pleading in each syllable spoken, widening eyes flicking around in panic, chest bursting for oxygen, words turning incoherent. His brown eyes focused on Bide momentarily, his breaths choked and pleading and so _desperate_.

"Alex-" A reassuring hand placed on his shoulder. A panic button pressed underneath the wooden desk. A glass of water offered to him, only to have it flung across the shoot and shattering into glass fragments and shards. The sound echoed loudly in Alex's eardrums. But he didn't really comprehend it, something was happening and he couldn't control it. He clutched at his hair, trying to reign in a shriek.

"Kill me..." Alex stared around him in confusion, his words trailing off into nothing, the world starting to blur and swirl in front of his eyes. He watched colours become mixed, sounds became jumbled, voices were being ripped away from his ears. It was too _overwhelming_.

He tried to stand up, but the world tilted to the left. He persevered slightly, stumbling to the right. Fortunately, his feet stayed firmly planted on the floor. The sound of Bide's chair scraping back could be heard distantly. Triumphant at his achievement, Alex took a step forward towards the door, but suddenly the white wall seemed so closer to him. It was coming at him, or he was going towards it. He couldn't tell. All he knew was one moment he was next to desk, then he was next to the plain wall, and his head hurt, pounded.

He reached out a pale hand to steady himself, stop himself from falling. His vision blurred into nothing as he prepared himself for the welcomed _pain_. But suddenly the wall wasn't there.

He blinked confusedly. Then he realized. There was something warm clutching his arm, the thing which was consequently stopping him from tumbling over. He didn't like it though, he didn't like it, didn't like touch, didn't trust touch. He shouldn't allow it, _couldn't allow it_. So he fought with the person in his white blindness, tears coercing down his cheeks in trails, legs turning unstable beneath his fragile body, face etched in pain-

Then the warmth was gone and he was falling once again, his eyes open but unseeing, the wall appearing in front of his vision as he stared, a pleading face framed by red hair shouted at him in his head. It couldn't be real though, it _couldn't_.

_No wonder Jack wanted to leave you, you're so weak and cowardly._ Alex moaned like a wounded animal at this, his fingers clawed at his ears, wanting the voices to _stop_.

Time slowed down, the clock ticked slower then usual, his breaths didn't want to come. He tried to steady himself with flailing limbs, but suddenly he couldn't move his rigid arms or legs or fingers and couldn't _feel_ anything as he was suspended mid-air, until he hit something solid and cold. A loud bang rang out, and he heard a faint cry from someone who _wasn't him._

Then he could feel something, of course. He could feel the blissful pain and comprehended the blood so obviously pooling around his head as he lay there like a fragile little doll. The stickiness of the liquid stuck to his hair and coated his back as he attempted to raise his head and failing to do so. The metallic taste was almost repelling as it met his taste buds.

But he enjoyed the pain so much though. It was his sanctuary he hid in his mind, it never left his thoughts. It always was there, so tempting and within _reach_. It was an obsession that he took pleasure from and relied on. He closed his eyes, revelling in the sensation.

_And you think about why Jack wanted to leave you, just look at yourself. You like pain, you're a freak. _Alex wanted to cover his ears, to stop there _spitefulness, _but his body felt immobilized with _pain-_

Then the pain was gone. His eyelids turned heavy and he tried to _blink_. All of a sudden it was gone and he wanted to cry out in despair, yet his lungs wouldn't let him speak or _breathe_. Panic burst out from inside him and his body felt tight and agitated. All he could do was lie there and think about what-on-earth was happening and why he couldn't feel anything anymore-

_Didn't you want to die though, don't tell me you've stopped wanting to die now when you have the chance? _That _thing_ spat out sharply, stinging and poisoning his thoughts.

The bittersweet conclusion that clouded his mind and sparked joy inside him, aroused deeply hidden feelings and ignited many _more, _came upon him forcefully like a torrent of emotions. Maybe he was _dead_. After all this time, maybe his wish had been fulfilled. Maybe he could finally be at peace and hide inside his little private sanctuary where he could rest from everything he ever knew, could escape to a place where memories couldn't be sparked from everyday things like red hair or jeeps or families and-

But _still _it didn't feel quite right. If he was dead, why didn't he feel more relieved? Surely he'd be more happy and _alive and free._ Yes, the atmosphere was serene and peaceful and the voices didn't keep interrupting his thoughts _constantly_; but it still didn't make sense.

Why did he feel an emptiness inside himself (that hadn't existed before) that was burrowing a painless (and somehow, painful) tunnel inside him towards his heart as each second passed?

And why was there still a little voice whispering for him to go back, its tone hushed and afraid as he tried to _block it out, a_nd did he just hear, somewhere, somehow, a clock tick? The torrent of thoughts was overwhelming, and he wanted to wail out childishly he _didn't like it._

Now all he could even think now was that death wouldn't be as naïve or smooth as he expected it to be. Especially now the voices were back, taunting him into humility and possessing his mind with hidden power he didn't even know they _harnessed_.

Strangely enough, Alex never thought he would ever regret his death or suicide, but he finally realized he just momentarily had. All the years of waiting had withered down to this _hell_ which consisted of abundant hissing jibes and supressed memories.

Overall, it was a good thing he was just comatose, then. Not dead like he('d) hoped he was.

Unknown to Alex, blood dripped into the white carpet as the paramedics rushed him to hospital, speaking with demanding tones into mobile phones, and the sniper that had been stalking his movements all day had shot Bide instead, the bullet entering and exiting his heart as quickly as it'd entered. Obviously he wouldn't know of that occurrence for months to come, but Bide had saved his life.

The man actually had cared about him, and Alex believed it was his fault, that he had let him die.

_Just like the others._

* * *

This is my first time writing anything that deep, so I apologise for bad writing and mistakes in grammar and punctuation.

You'll make my day with just one review, so doooo ittt;)

Also, updates will be like around every few months because I have more prioritised things than fanfiction (woah, woah, I still love to write though, don't get me wrong).

Rose x


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